Cleveland Noir by Miesha Wilson Headen

Author:Miesha Wilson Headen [Headen, Miesha Wilson]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781636141022
Publisher: Akashic Books
Published: 2023-07-31T21:00:00+00:00

PART III

THE TRENDY

TREMONSTER

BY D.M. PULLEY

Tremont

I hear his laugh before I see him.

A giggle from somewhere over my shoulder. I open my tear-crusted eyes to an old episode of The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air playing on the television. The laugh track titters in the background, but that wasn’t it.

I unkink my neck and scan the room. Saltines and dead cigarettes litter the coffee table. Toppled bottles. Open wine. I must’ve passed out on the velvet couch we found at that garage sale. Our bedroom door stands open, but the queen-size air mattress is empty.

Dan left.

The door slams again in my head, and everything I drank in the two nights since he stormed out rolls to the top of my throat, lurching me up to my feet.

That’s when I see him.

His dark face peeks in through my living room window, catching me midcrouch like a bathroom stall intruder. I yelp and cover myself, eyes darting to the front door, the open window, the empty bedroom.

But …

This little Black boy can’t be more than nine years old. I follow his gaze to the television where Will Smith is dancing like Carlton. He props his elbows on my windowsill and presses his nose to the bug screen, ignoring the hungover white woman gawking at him.

I must’ve left the window open the night before. I can’t remember. I can’t remember how I got home. I remember the martinis at the Lava Lounge down the street. I remember the song that was playing. Tracy Chapman telling me to run.

The boy laughs again, but not at me.

“Hey,” I say.

He looks at me, looks at Will Smith, and then vanishes without a word.

Flabbergasted, I gape down at myself. I’m wearing Dan’s old T-shirt and nothing else. Bare legs. Loose tits. Crumbs on the floor. Crumbs on me. Mortified, I run to the bathroom and throw up last night’s vodka.

It takes most of the day to pull myself back together again. My head stops pounding around five. I’m able to hold down food by six. I clean up the evidence of my bender—the bottles, the ashtray, the spilled wine—thinking of that kid and what he saw.

And what he must think of me.

Because that wasn’t me. Not the “me” I show people. I graduated from CWRU at the top of my class and landed a job at a well-respected software company downtown just this spring. Yes, I drink from time to time, but so what? It’s practically a prerequisite in college.

And after you’re left for dead by the love of your life.

Dan and I were supposed to get married. One day. After three years of dating, we signed a lease on this apartment. Just the two of us. Just four months ago. Our landlord, Mr. Lewandowski, called the newly renovated duplex a “love nest” while eyeballing my chest with a wet-lipped smile on his bloated Bible-salesman face.

Our first apartment.

Tremont was supposed to be the perfect place to start our grown-up life together. This little neighborhood across the river from downtown

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